MADISON COUNTY WMA -- I am desecrating a future archeological site.
In contemporary terms, I am picking up litter.
It's the second day of a controlled muzzleloader deer hunt at Madison County Wildlife Management Area north of Huntsville, and I am policing my campsite.
Let's see, I found a packet of Organo Gold Gourmet Cafe Supreme. This isn't just any ordinary coffee. It's a "Ginseng Powder and Coffee Blend with 100% Certified Ganoderma Extract." That part is written in French, too, so you know it's got to be good.
This is certainly more refined than my Folger's singles. A couple of shakes tells me that the contents are intact, so it goes into my kitchen box.
What else do we have here? A package of flavored Zig-Zag rolling papers. An Oral-B toothbrush. Three D-cell batteries. Two AA batteries. Candy and cracker wrappers. I burn the paper and foil materials and put the rest in a Wal-Mart bag.
In the early '90s, when I lived in Springdale, I had a buddy, John Claredy, that worked in a factory that made Wal-Mart's bags at that time. He was really proud of them.
"We make a GREAT bag, man!"
As I tied it closed, I wondered what became of him.
A thousand years from now, these items would be valuable to sociologists trying to piece together the lifestyle tapestry from this primitive hunting site. I guess I could leave it, but this is my home for the next three days, and I don't want to live in a pigsty.
Acorns fall like rain in a steady northwesterly breeze as wispy clouds curl like rams horns in the azure Ozark sky. Flocks of white-fronted geese trill high overhead as they have done in their southern journeys for time immemorial.
I think about those who came before me a thousand years ago and wonder if they marveled at these same sights and sounds.
They hunted to survive. I hunt for pleasure, but the venison tastes as sweet to me as it did to them.
Having arrived late in the afternoon, I had only a couple of hours to hunt after making camp. A long walk to a remote spot brought me to the side of a ridge that gives me a short view of the hilltop and a slightly longer view to the bench below.
About an hour later, a young 6-point buck walked past, no more than 55 yards away. The wind was in my favor, and the buck didn't even look my way. I lowered my rifle. He wasn't the one I wanted.
Sunrise found me in the same spot. I had scarcely arrived when a doe stepped clear onto the bench. I lowered my rifle. Greatness was in the air, and shooting a doe this early might spoil my chances.
I stood against that pine tree all day because sitting would restrict my field of view. Nothing will get past me standing, but it sure makes the feet sore.
The four mature gobblers that stepped into the clearing in mid-afternoon were welcome company. They were mere specks in the distance, but the first one spotted me immediately and clucked uncertainly. The other three joined him, but they were uncertain. Finally they walked directly away, alert but not entirely spooked.
My late father imputed supernatural abilities to deer. "They'll see you long before you ever see them," he used to say. "They can hear you from hundreds of yards away." I got to where I feared they could read my mind.
I've learned that deer do not possess acute situational awareness.
Not so with turkeys. They are aware of everything.
I returned to that spot at 3:15 p.m. The Arkansas Democrat-Gazette solunar table showed a major activity period at 4:55 p.m.
At 5:05 p.m., a big-bodied deer stepped onto the bench, 87 yards away. Even at that range, in the gathering darkness, its antlers were prominent. Then it turned its head to look away. The rack was tall, and the fading sunlight glistened off the tines.
That's why I came.
I steadied my rifle against the tree and centered the crosshairs at the shoulder.
The primer fired as I squeezed the trigger, but a split second elapsed before the charge ignited. It detonated with a dull boom instead of the high-pitched roar a large magnum rifle primer igniting 90 grains of Blackhorn 209.
A rare hangfire added yet another chapter to my checkered history with muzzleloaders.
The buck bounded away. I searched, but I knew it was unhurt.
For that I was grateful.
Sports on 11/10/2016